


Find Comfort in These words

by ryssabeth



Series: Situational Irony [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grief, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-09
Updated: 2013-04-09
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:56:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryssabeth/pseuds/ryssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a slow night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Find Comfort in These words

It’s a slow night, at the hospital. Which is nice—because some evenings are not, and Joly has terrible luck, that is more Bossuet’s area. (Luck has only ever been with Joly when Bossuet is around.) He might even be able to catch a nap before anything truly drastic happens. The intern on call never gets that sort of luxury on a Friday night.

And—apparently—this Friday night is no different, the Emergency Trauma Center comes alive with the rumble of the ambulance and the people screaming orders in distress ( _“—caught between a telephone pole and a front fender of a vehicle—“_ ). He pushes up from his chair in the waiting room, rushing to the double doors already being pushed open, a figure atop a gurney, the waist down dark red with blood and damage.

His training has him see the injury first—a crushed pelvis and Lord knows what else—before examining the person. (Expressions are always important, on how well they’re going to be able to deal with pain and treatment, sudden surgery and other such things.)

And he recognises the face he sees.

“Oh, hi, Joly, hi,” Grantaire _hics_ against blood in his throat, crawling from the corner of his mouth. “I can’t feel my legs,” his words bubble up past his lips as the gurney rushes forward, down another set of swinging double doors to surgery.

“You’ve got a crushed pelvis,” he tries to keep his eyes away from it, the useless bodyparts below the sheet.

“Oh I can feel _that_ ,” Grantaire laughs and blood spits out. “But not the legs, no, not the legs.” One of his hands finds Joly’s wrist, and breathes in and out with laboured bubbles. “I need you to call Enjolras for me.”

“After you get the help you need, okay, after that.”

“ _No_ ,” Grantaire growls—but that is probably a result of the internal bleeding somewhere inside him as well. “No, call him now, call him now and say I’ll be home soon—I’ll be home soon, I just can’t feel my legs. I’ll—to the end of my days, Joly, if you don’t tell him this—Tell him I’ll be okay, tell him, okay, you have to—you have to call him and you—“ His fingers tense before falling away from Joly’s wrist, his head lolling to the side, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“He’s going into _shock!_ ” one of the doctors say.

And Joly stops running along with the gurney, his feet stuttering on the tile, his shoes squeaking loudly.

He fumbles for his phone, still in his pocket from his break moments before, and pulls it out, bringing it to his ear, Enjolras’ number already typed without his noticing. As it rings, waiting for Enjolras to pick up— _“say I’ll be home soon”_ —Joly swallows against the vomit rising hard and fast up his throat.

“Hello?” Enjolras sounds so casual— _happy_ , he sounds happy, waiting for Grantaire to come home. “What can I do for you, Joly?”

Panic thunders in his ears—and Joly isn’t a liar. So the words tumble out of him, hitting the floor like stones, breaking and shattering apart. (He hears someone down the hall call for a crash cart. He hears someone else shouting _clear_.)

“Hi, oh God, Enjolras, thank God, you picked up, it’s Grantaire, it’s Grantaire, Enjolras, he’s been—”


End file.
